


He Had The World

by Peter Hale (RyloKen)



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Death Fic, I Can't Believe I Wrote This, Inspired By La Boheme, Inspired by Moulin Rouge, M/M, Once Upon A Time There Were Two Boys Who Loved Each Other, One Writer Was Harmed In The Writing Of This Fic, Sad Ending, Stiles Is A Burlesque Dancer, Terminal Illnesses, The Author Regrets Everything, The End, Unhappy Ending, What Have I Done, Why Did I Write This?, like really sad, they both died, tuberculosis
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-25
Updated: 2019-06-25
Packaged: 2020-05-19 14:25:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,841
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19358818
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RyloKen/pseuds/Peter%20Hale
Summary: It starts with a cough.He always knew it would come to this.He hoped, with everything that he had, that it wouldn’t, but there were some things you just can’t run from.He’s still young when the first signs appear, a kiss of death that smiles red up at him and reminds him of a mother lost to memory, of honeyed eyes and sweeter smiles sugar-topped with death.He’s only seventeen, but he knows what it means.





	He Had The World

_I'd give anything to hear_  
_You say it one more time_  
_That the universe was made_  
_Just to be seen by my eyes_

_With shortness of breath, I'll explain the infinite_  
_How rare and beautiful it truly is that we exist_

_[Saturn - Sleeping At Last](https://youtu.be/dzNvk80XY9s)_

 

It starts with a cough.

He always knew it would come to this.

He hoped, with everything that he had, that it wouldn’t, but there were some things you just can’t run from.

He’s still young when the first signs appear, a kiss of death that smiles red up at him and reminds him of a mother lost to memory, of honeyed eyes and sweeter smiles sugar-topped with death.

He’s only seventeen, but he knows what it means.

 

 

 

There’s a part of him that would have laughed if he didn’t want to cry so much.

He hides it, the part of him that’s crumbling, and smiles on as he takes to his stage and brings life with him.

There’s an irony there, he thinks, as he rolls his hips and sends his fox-furred tails dancing.

He’s alive on his stage, surrounded by people who adore him and come to see him despite the plethora of guys and gals that spin and twirl and sparkle like stars in the night sky about him.

He’s alive, and yet, with every second that passes, he feels it, the reminder that he’s really not.

He’s only seventeen, and he won’t see another birthday.

 

 

 

He doesn’t mean to break the world with him.

He’s falling to pieces, he knows, and he never meant to take anyone down with him, but it happens and he can’t stop it.

He’s not feeling well when his world shifts, his head a bag of cats that hate each other and his heart stuck high in his throat.

He smiles for the world to see but all the pain shines like fire in his eyes, lights up the amber until his gaze gleams like fine whiskey in a tumbler full of gold.

He thinks, as he stumbles, as his lungs seize and struggle and break apart to stain his fox-grin, that this is it.

But then he’s warm, pressed close to a wall of muscle hidden behind expensive cloth and he’s reminded that beauty isn’t something only he can touch.

They’re like sapphires, a sunlit sea full of mischief, those eyes that find him in the dark.

Blue as blue can be and framed by a face that has no right being so handsome, so tempting.

The devils come to claim him.

He’s only seventeen, and he doesn’t think he’ll mind the trip to hell.

 

 

His name is Peter, and he’s the eye of the storm.

He knows he shouldn’t love him, should push him away; there’s no time for courting devils when he’s dancing with death.

But he’s there, everywhere, touch and taste and sin.

It’s a life he’s losing, and it’s alive he’s feeling when there’s hands in his hair and lips on his throat.

It’s alive inside him, a warmth that spreads and tangles with the cold spiders that flake away at every breath he takes.

Devil and death, they both take, but when he’s dancing atop silk and singing songs for gods because of the man between his thighs, he doesn’t mind it.

He’s only seventeen, but he’s used to dying.

 

 

He makes a mistake, a time or two.

He’s made them before, here and there, near and far, but none so cruel as the one he makes when he smiles and laughs, when he throws his arms around the thick neck of the devil who came calling.

There’s a ring on his finger and oh, but it shines.

It sparkles and dances as he does, shooting star-shine with every step as he laughs and takes to his toes to twirl.

It’s a pretty thing, a pretty promise.

And when he soaks it red and sees…

He’s only seventeen but he’s lived.

 

 

 

He tries, he does, to do the right thing.

He thinks to write a letter, to tell the truth and hope it’s enough, to leave behind what’s left of him with his words and his love and the ring and its promises.

The words won’t come but the tears do, and then so too do the coughs.

He can’t breathe, for a time, but it’s longer than he’s used to and when the ache subsides and his chin drips red, he’s gasping as a fish drawn fast from its seas, ripped up from its home like weeds from the ground.

His pale hands shake, pianist fingers trembling as he stares at all the blood.

Whiskey finds his smiles in the mirror but it’s hidden behind the stains.

He’s a liar.

He’s a monster.

He’s only seventeen and he’s going to burn the world when he goes.

 

 

 

There’s a part of him that knows he should say something.

Hadn’t he hated his mother for what she did, for the laughs she used to hide the sickness, for the pain she never spoke of as she hid away the proof that she wasn’t going to make it?

He hated her, and now he is her.

He thinks his lover knows, suspects, maybe just a little, but then the love is always there, a topcoat in his sky-bright eyes and he thinks that no, he can’t know.

He couldn’t possibly.

And that’s worse.

They’re so _happy._

He thinks it might kill him, the way he feels when he’s held against the warmth, arms strong about his slender waist and a promise to protect, to love, to stay, to hold on until the world turns to dust and fades to nothingness with a single cosmic breath.

And he knows he will.

Peter doesn’t know how to let go of anything.

He’s only seventeen and he’s going to shatter the sun.

 

 

He can feel it.

Every step he takes, every breath he struggles to take.

There’s a poison in his lungs, a gift from his mother that took its time to rot and ruin.

He wakes with cold claws in his chest, with the ice of death along his spine as he stumbles to the bathroom to hide away his secret.

He stares into his own soul as he struggles, as he sucks air through an ocean and covers it up with hands that are stained no matter how hard he scrubs them.

Tears are fine diamonds on his lashes as he pulls his hands away, as he flicks his gaze to take in all the red.

It chokes him.

There are bruises on his throat, kissed in and loved, licked across the canvas of his collarbones until he’s a painting of all the things he’s going to leave behind.

_Love._

_Acceptance._

_Promise._

_Protection._

He chokes on a sob, then chokes on a lung.

He’s only seventeen and he knows.

 

 

The sunrise should have been beautiful, the last as it is.

But even as it breathes pinks and blues across the sky, he finds it wanting.

There, behind him, bringing light and life, forgotten.

He doesn’t watch the sun wake.

He watches the world sleep.

He’s only seventeen and he’s going to break.

 

 

 

He can’t do it.

One more show, a final dance.

He sits before his mirrors, eyes hiding secrets the world can’t glean.

His hair is primped, his corset strings tightened; he can’t breathe, but then he’s used to it.

When he stands, he shakes, he stumbles.

His vanity catches him when he crumbles, holds him up as he covers his mouth and swallows down his lungs.

There’s blood on his fingertips, a promise all its own.

He licks his lips and tastes it, iron and lost life; a kiss from the grim reaper.

_Please._

He steels his spine and turns, turns his back on the liar that walks away in his reflection.

He doesn’t stumble again.

He’s only seventeen, and he’s ready.

 

 

 

He dances, and he dances.

He is a fox among the hens, a smirk in the dark that laughs and twirls and flicks his tails in a swirl of shadows.

He is magnificent.

He is untouchable.

He is a fox, sly and beautiful, and he never once feels the absence of the wolf at the edges of his hunt.

They brush fingers, they share smiles.

The crowd are oblivious, cheering and happy, sipping champagne from fine flutes and offering up jewels to the boy with whiskey in his eyes and hell to pay in his smiles.

He twirls and his tails dance, and he takes to his stage in the skies.

They gasp and they point.

 _Look_ , they shout, look at the fox that courts the moon.

He’s so, so alive.

He laughs and kicks his feet, toes pointed to the stars as he sends himself soaring.

Nine tails trail behind him, black and silken and a mask he wears to hide his sins.

He’s flying.

He’s flying.

He’s not.

He’s only seventeen but he learns what it is to fall.

 

 

 

He can’t breathe.

He can’t see.

He thinks maybe he doesn’t want to.

He knows the warmth at his back, knows the strength in the arms that coil tight as strings about him.

He struggles, shakes.

It’s not pain he feels, not for the lungs that crumble inside his chest, for the air he can’t drink anymore.

It’s not his lungs that hurt him.

His heart breaks.

It shatters.

He watches the world shake apart as the blue of the sky becomes the black of a sea at storm.

Word won’t come to him, won’t fight passed the taste of blood on his tongue.

His smile is red, and when he coughs, it brightens.

He doesn’t feel cold, he can’t, not with hell holding him so tight.

It’s his ears that betray him, that let it all in.

His name sounds like a sword cutting ribbons through the air.

A dance all its own.

His name becomes a cry, becomes broken.

They stare at each other, sea and stars, worlds apart but together, here, always.

He is the fox dancing songs upon the face of the moon and Peter, Peter is the sun with no more reason to shine.

He manages one more time, just once, to say his lovers name.

It’s a twisted thing, strewn through with gasps and the taste of death.  

There’s warmth at his cheek, a hand holding him steady as he’s tossed about the river Styx.

The name of the sun becomes the words he should have said so long ago.

At least, he tries.

The apology is as lost as he is, there but not.

It’s a blade to finish them both.

He’s only seventeen when he watches the world die with him.

 

 

 

They tell stories of him, the fox who kissed the sun and stole the heart of the devil with his laughter.

What they don’t know is that it was never his laughter that lured him in.

It was his heart.

And when it stopped beating, so too did the devils.

 


End file.
